Cursed be the beddings That soaked up their love To produce a vain thing From the whisper of sweet nothings To grunts and sobs Her smile is a concealer A replica of that of daughters of the eastern heartland Concealing the world and everything in it Her eyeshadow coloured black and blue; Is an imprint of pummelled punches From that love war at Waterloo Rouge cheeks betrayed by bad blood that vowed to stand in the dock So I say a prayer To open the eyes of her mind To the truth that beasts leave not their meals half-way Wearing white-toothed smiles while transversing dark paths I kneel and say a prayer That you will live to tell this tale Of kicks that became pats Punches weaved into your heart Bruises that will never dry How come you are yet to die?